


take your time (in a hurry)

by bloomsoftly



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Darcy Lewis is Tony Stark's Daughter, F/F, F/M, Multi, old west au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2018-12-20 03:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11912457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloomsoftly/pseuds/bloomsoftly
Summary: Darcy is the bastard daughter of one Anthony Edward Stark, who was banished from New York for getting a girl pregnant out of wedlock.Now that her grandparents have died, she embarks on a quest out west to find her long-lost father. Twenty years later. Should be a piece of cake.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Queenspuppet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queenspuppet/gifts).



> this is an idea that was sitting in my brain from when i first started writing in darcyland, but i never had the time. but now queenie's birthday is coming up, and i'm writing it for her! 
> 
> love you, my muse. <3 <3

Her eyes were dry. They were supposed to be, she guessed. No one else was crying, either, and her Grandma and Grandpa certainly wouldn’t have wanted her to abandon decorum over misplaced sentiment. Well, Grandma would’ve wanted her to mourn, in private. Grandpa Howard would’ve laughed at her for it, if he was drunk. If he was sober, he probably wouldn’t have remembered she existed at all.

They hadn’t spoken to each other in months, not since he’d rooted out all the letters her Papa had sent from when she was a baby, the ones Maria had used to read to her before bed. He’d burned them all in a fit of rage. All but one. Dipping her fingers into the folds of her skirt, searching for the hidden pocket that had the letter safely tucked away, Darcy rubbed the parchment between her fingers. She was in need of its security today, of all days. It was a familiar method of reassuring herself; the letter was one of her oldest companions. It and Maria were the only friends she had left in the world.

A world that was full of snakes and sharks, circling tighter and tighter as they tried to figure out whether she would inherit the Stark fortune. She’d been the only descendant, despite her Papa’s disgrace and banishment. And now she was alone, with no buffer from the rakes and the back-stabbing, conniving upper society of New York. She was so tired of feeling like prey.

Which was why she was hiding in the corner of the receiving room, away from the parlor and all the vultures dressed in black. Staring at the casseroles and the pies, wondering how she’d ever eat them all. Wondering if they’d known it was too much—too much for a girl just breaking into her twenties, and a housekeeper, and a small set of servants—but brought them anyway, needing a reason to swoop in on the memorial. Maybe that was overly cynical, but the headache that pressed at the edges of her eyes said not.

When Arnim Zola stepped through the door, crowding the doorway and blocking her route out of the room, she realized the mistake she’d made. Foolish girl, to cut herself off from the rest of the room. Even in her grief, she never should’ve made such a stupid mistake. As much as her Grandpa and Grandma had liked Zola, had entrusted him with watching out for her, she’d never liked him. More importantly, Maria had never liked him. A snake in the grass, she’d always thought him. The calculating gleam in his eyes as he looked at her, making her shudder, had Darcy thinking that her best friend was right to be wary. There was something serpentine about him, and her heart started to beat almost frantically in her chest.

It wasn’t a good feeling, not like when Ian Boothby murmured teasing words in her ear or held her hand as they walked through the apple orchards. Her palms began to sweat, and she pressed them against the heavy fabric of her black skirt as she gave a polite smile. “Mr. Zola. How do you do? I’m surprised you’re not in the other room with the other mourners.”

He ignored her attempted dismissal without even dropping his smarmy smile. “I wanted to see how you were doing, Miss Stark. And I’ve told you many times, you can call me Arnim.” He stepped further into the room as he spoke, pinning her between his short body and the sympathy food laid out along the table.  _Lewis_ , she wanted to snarl.  _My name is Lewis_. But she didn’t. Instead she kept the scandalous words trapped behind her teeth, hidden where they couldn’t do any harm to anyone but her.

His gaze was calculating on hers, as if he knew she couldn’t do anything but stand there. And he did know that, she realized,  _the bastard_. He’d been an active member of society as long as her grandparents. “I’m worried about you, Darcy,” he said, murmuring the words with flat eyes and a pinned-on smile. She vaguely wondered whether he truly thought he was fooling her, or if he simply didn’t care. It didn’t matter, really. As he took another step, she dropped that thought and wracked her brain for a way to escape. “All alone, in this mansion, with no one but a few servants to take care of you. And you must be in such low spirits at the passing of your grandparents. So devastating for a young, fragile woman, I understand.” There were words he didn’t say—weak and stupid were two of them—words that he was careful not to say, but that he meant. She heard them loud and clear, as if they were spoken aloud.

“I’m alright,” she demurred with a blank smile, shooting inconspicuous looks at the doorway. “Maria takes care of me just fine.” She darted another glance at the hallway, as if saying her name would somehow miraculously summon the woman in question.

“Ah, yes. The housekeeper, right?” The disdain that dripped from every syllable made Darcy want to smack him. Instead she fisted her hands even tighter in her skirts, twisting and ruining the fabric beyond all recognition. She’d have to throw it away, after this. But still she couldn’t bring herself to let go. “A young, beautiful woman such as yourself needs more guidance at home, dear.” With a sick feeling in her stomach, she realized his true purpose in cornering her.

Her suspicions were confirmed with his next words, though not in the way she’d expected. “If I were several decades younger, I might be tempted to try for your hand myself. But you’re far too lively and energetic for an old man like me,” he said with a self-deprecating grin, light and cheerful as if the very thought didn’t make her want to vomit. “But there is a young man I want you to meet. Helmut Zemo is his name,” he said, looming over her in a way he never had before. How a short man could look so vicious and intimidating, she had no idea. “He’s a great friend of the family, and I’m sure you’ll like him very much. I expect you’ll show him every courtesy, hmm?”

There was no mistaking his glare, or the way his lips quirked on the word courtesy, and her breath caught in her throat. She didn’t know what to say, what she could say that wouldn’t be an unwitting promise or an unintelligible noise of disgust. A flash of movement at the corner of her eye had Darcy looking toward the door in supplication, looking for a savior. And there she was, Maria Hill, Darcy’s personal champion and the only person truly on her side.

“Miss Lewis,” she said sharply, face as blank as ever. Her eyes were like flint as they traced an icy path between Darcy and her grandparents’ friend. As always, her gaze missed nothing. Darcy had never been so grateful for her friend’s sharp instincts in her entire life. “The Carters are asking after you. I believe they plan to take their leave, and wanted to give their well-wishes.”

“Thank you, Maria,” she softly replied, grateful when her voice held steady. One thing Howard had taught her was to never show weakness, not in front of anyone but certainly not in front of potential enemies. Turning to the older man, she dipped into a light curtsy and said, “Please excuse me, Mr. Zola. My duties as a hostess call, surely you must understand.”

There was nothing he could say to prevent her from leaving, not with a witness, and she swept out of the room with her head held high. Her hands trembled in her skirts, betraying her to Maria. With a soft touch to her arm, so light and fleeting that it would look like an accident to anyone else, her friend and the only mother she’d ever known whispered, “Strength, little dove. Have strength, and keep your chin up.”

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. The Carters were lovely, as always—Aunt Peggy had never been anything but nice and kind to her, and she’d always encouraged Darcy’s independent streak behind Howard and Maria’s back. And Sharon was one of her few, true friends. Which was why they both looked at her sharply, seeing straight through the mask to the trembling girl beneath. Reaching out to touch her wrist, not giving a damn who saw, the older woman peered into Darcy’s eyes. In a low voice, she asked, “What happened, dearest?” Sharon didn’t say anything, but shifted her body slightly so that she and her aunt flanked the frightened young woman until she was almost out of sight from the rest of the room.

“Nothing,” Darcy assured them, badly. Her smile wobbled unconvincingly in her face, and she lost it altogether as Peggy’s eyes drifted from her face to follow someone across the room. Darcy’s shoulders tensed at the movement, knowing  that Mr. Zola had just entered the room behind her. She didn’t turn her head, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’d frightened her. But she watched from the corner of her eye as he headed straight for an unassuming young man who was loitering in the corner and observing the rest of the room. Not someone she knew, nor that her grandparents knew. Not to her knowledge, anyway.

She had a sickening feeling she knew exactly who it was: Helmut Zemo. The man with whom Mr. Zola was intent on coercing her into marriage. Cynically, she wondered how much of her supposed fortune Mr. Zemo had agreed to give away, in payment to Mr. Zola for forcing the match. Some of her caustic disgust must have been evident on her face, because Peggy’s face firmed into a stone mask. Her arm was rigid against Darcy’s, like her whole body was made out of marble. But the touch of her hand was gentle against the young woman’s skin. “Nevermind, dearest. I see exactly what’s happening.”

Sharon’s eyes followed her aunt’s, but her look of confusion never faded. She’d been raised in a loving household, spearheaded by a strong, independent aunt. Even if Sharon’s parents had wanted to sell her off to the highest bidder, there’s no way Peggy would ever let them. Darcy felt a fierce stab of envious fury at the thought, roiling like a terrible beast in her stomach. Immediately, she was overcome with remorse. She wouldn’t wish this on Sharon for anything.

Peggy and Sharon kept her close for the rest of the evening, standing in one spot and forcing the other mourners to come to them to pay their condolences. It was unconventional, and with anyone else it would have been borderline scandalous. But it was Peggy Carter, and no one dared to challenge her. Not even Zola, though he held on to Darcy’s hand just a little too firmly, a little too long. “You’ll think about what I said, yes?” His hand tightened around hers in warning, and she struggled not to wince.

She offered a noncommittal smile, trying to think of the words to say that wouldn’t inadvertently commit her to a marriage she most certainly did not want, when Peggy came to her rescue. “Zola, whatever has gotten into you? You’re holding up the line.” There was nothing he could do but squeeze her hand one last time, bowing over it. Mr. Zemo did the same, pressing dry lips to her hand. There was nothing improper about the way he gripped her, nor did he linger overly long. But still she had to fight the urge to wipe the back of her hand against her skirt as they walked away.

Eventually, everyone was gone and only Peggy and Sharon remained. As the front door closed behind the last of her grandparents’ friends, Peggy immediately moved to call for Maria. The housekeeper was within easy shouting distance, as she always was, and came forward with that same blank look on her face. Darcy wanted to reassure her that her Aunt Peggy was safe, that even though she wasn’t related to Darcy by blood she’d never betray her. She opened her mouth to tell Maria that she could relax, but the older woman beat her to it. “Oh for God’s sake, Maria, wipe that look off your face. We need to strategize on ways to protect Darcy.”

In her surprise, Maria’s jaw fell open. She looked different, somehow, younger. Darcy was suddenly reminded that she’d been young herself when Darcy was born, had been young when the Starks had brought her on to take care of the young girl they had no idea what to do with. The bastard child that, for whatever reason, they’d decided to take in and raise in their household.

“I won’t let that slimy bastard get his hands on her,” Maria vowed, regaining her stony expression. But it was stiff with fury this time, not devoid of emotion. “I won’t.”

“Good,” Peggy drawled, her English accent more prevalent than ever. “Because I had no intention of letting anything happen to her.”

“Hello,” Darcy piped up, “I’m standing right here.”

“Yes, you are.” Peggy didn’t look chastened at all. Darcy didn’t think there was a single thing in the entire world that could rattle the woman. “And I need to talk to you about your options.”

With a sigh, Maria offered, “I’ll get Cook to make some coffee and biscuits. Yes, Mrs. Carter, I know. Tea for you.” As she headed out of the room, Darcy shot her a grateful smile. She had a feeling it would be a long night.

Peggy waited patiently for Maria to get back, then didn’t waste any more time. “What do you know of your father, Darcy?” she asked as she prepared herself a cup of tea. Darcy’s breath caught in her throat; no one ever talked about her father, no one dared. When she was a girl, Maria told her about him in secret whispers. But even they hadn’t spoken about him in years, despite the fact that Darcy carried his letter with her everywhere she went.

“Not much,” she prevaricated. She’d held every snippet of knowledge about her father too close to her chest for years to let it go now. Not even for Peggy, someone she loved and trusted.

A gleam overtook the older woman’s eyes, something mischievous and amused, but she didn’t call Darcy out on the lie. “He was a bright boy, Anthony Edward Stark. Perhaps bright isn’t enough to describe it. He was a genius, really. And I say ‘was’ because no one has heard from him in two decades. No one but you, I imagine,” she said, fixing Darcy with a gimlet eye.

It was everything she could do not to flinch, fingers spasming with the effort of not reaching for the precious letter, to check if it was still there. Still safe, after all these years. Peggy caught the aborted movement and harrumphed. “That’s what I thought.” She took a long sip of her tea, then set the cup onto the saucer with a decisive clink. “Well, girl, you’ve got three options, as I see them.”

“Option one is to roll over and let Zola have what he wants, which is your fortune.” Ignoring Maria’s furious gaze, she clarified, “I know nothing of this Mr. Zemo, but I do know Zola. And I can almost guarantee that you would have a miserable, lonely life under that man’s thumb.” At Darcy’s vehement negative, she grinned in vicious satisfaction. “I thought not. Good. But unfortunately, that does not leave you with many options.”

At her words, Darcy’s heart sank. She knew that, of course, but there was something about Peggy that inspired hope where she’d only had hopelessness, before. But the older woman wasn’t done. Pausing to take a sip of tea—she hated to be hurried, that woman, no matter the situation—she continued, “The second option is to find a different one to marry, one you could stand to live with for the rest of your life.”

She hadn’t thought of that, to be honest. Her first thought was of Ian, of the sweet kisses he’d given her beneath the apple trees, the way his hand had shyly pressed against the front of her bodice. Perhaps she could stand to be married to him, she thought, even if she didn’t feel like she knew him all that well. The idea didn’t fill her with excitement or dread, and she couldn’t decide if that was a good thing, or not. “Zola would never let that happen,” Maria cut in. Her disgusted scoff pulled Darcy away from her thoughts before she could come to any sort of conclusion.

To her surprise, Peggy didn’t disagree. “That is the problem, yes. You’d have to find a man who wouldn’t be scared away from making an offer,” by the prospect of displeasing the terrible little man, she meant, “and who couldn’t be convinced to bow to Zola’s wishes later.” Which ruled out Ian. And every other young man in her acquaintance, quite frankly.

Sharon was thinking the same thing, and she wore a matching look of distaste. “That rules that option out.” Her disgusted tone made Darcy laugh, the first moment all evening that she’d been able to find any humor. Maybe at all, since her grandparents had died.

Far from looking discouraged, Peggy was every inch the cat that had got the cream. All of a sudden Darcy felt like she’d been herding them somehow, steering them toward a conclusion she’d already reached. “Which leaves only one option. Darcy, you must leave New York.”

Her heart stuttered and stopped. “What?” Her voice was an achy whisper, matching the way her heart broke to pieces in her chest. Peggy’s smile was gentle but firm, like steel overlaid with silk.

“You’ll have to leave, Darcy. Otherwise Zola will haunt and hound you as long as it takes, dearest, for him to get his hands on that money. And I don’t have any difficulty believing he would resort to force, if necessary.”

Sharon’s gasp was audible. “How could Mr. and Mrs. Stark be friends with such a man?” she wondered, indignant.

“He’s very good at hiding what he is.” Peggy gaze was dark and troubled for only a moment before she hid it all behind a pleasant mask. For the first time, Darcy wondered exactly how she knew what Zola was capable of.

Leave New York, she’d said. And she’d asked about Darcy’s father. Oh. This time, she couldn’t help but reach to stroke the letter in her pocket. Maybe, after all these years—

“May I see it?”

Peggy’s face was gentle and kind, and that was the only reason Darcy was able to draw her hand out of her pocket and hand it over.

“Amazing,” the other woman said, “that you’ve been able to hold on to it for so long. Howard found the others, I presume?”

“Yes,” Darcy choked, the smoke of the remembered fire sticking like ash in her throat. “He burned them.”

“Stubborn,” Peggy clucked. “Just like his son. And his granddaughter, too,” she added with a wink.

“There’s no return address,” Darcy said. She didn’t want to talk about Grandpa right now.

“No. There isn’t.”

“But—” Maria interjected, breaking her silence.

“But I might have something, anyway.” All at once, Peggy stood up. The rest of them scrambled in her wake. “May I call on you tomorrow, dear? I think I should have a solution to your problem by then.”

Darcy stuttered her assent, and the two women swept out of the room. Sharon, at least, looked as confused as she felt. And then they were gone, and Darcy was left with nothing but a piercing headache and her overwhelming fears. That wasn’t entirely true, though; she had Maria, who pulled her into a loose, warm embrace.

All of a sudden, she realized that Peggy had taken the letter from Darcy’s father. The last thing she had of him. Feeling its loss keenly, like a hole in her hip, she burst into tears against Maria’s shoulder. She sobbed and sobbed, and was overcome with a feeling of total despair.

Eventually, Maria coaxed her up to her bedroom to lie down. She fell into troubled dreams, pursued by phantom images of Zola and Zemo and the ghostly wraiths of her Grandma and Grandpa. Their specters haunted her with their crushing disappointment. But Maria was there, holding them at bay with her softly-crooned murmurs and the gentle touch of her fingers sifting through Darcy’s hair.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was posted on tumblr a couple of days ago, so if you follow me on there you might've already read it. :)

Despite a restless night, Darcy was up just after dawn the next morning. There was too much to do; at some point in the middle of all her tossing and turning, she’d realized she couldn’t stay here. Not in this house, and certainly not in the shadow of Zola and his scheming machinations. Whether or not Peggy found a way to find her father, she wasn’t staying in New York.

She wasn’t looking forward to telling Maria. Not that she had to—the other woman had a knack for being able to read her thoughts almost before she’d even had them. In this case, it was easy. As soon as Darcy directed some of the servants to start packing up the house—starting with her grandparents’ bedroom and other, lesser-used rooms of the house—Maria was there at her elbow. “Not going to wait for Mrs. Carter to come back before you make your decision?”

“You know she’d yell at you for calling her that, Maria. And no, I’m not. We both know that there’s only one option for me. Can _you_ see me tied down to a man too scared to tell Zola no?”

The other woman only snorted in reply. Dusting her hands briskly on her apron, she said, “Well, that’s settled, then. I’ll have the maids pack up in here, next.” She waved a hand around Howard’s study at all the books and his strange inventions, plus the keepsakes he’d gathered from his travels. Darcy looked up from where she’d been combing through the loose sheets of paper on her grandfather’s desk. She wasn’t ready for this room to be packed up, and she opened her mouth to tell Maria that, but was sidetracked at the next words that came out of the housekeeper’s mouth.

“Then we’ll go through your clothing to decide what will survive the trip.”

“What trip?”

Maria leveled her with a skeptical, don’t-try-to-pull-one-over-on-me-missy look. “For the journey west. You trying to tell me that you’re planning on leaving New York and it’s _not_ to go find your father?”

She hadn’t said as much out loud, but Darcy couldn’t deny that it had always been her intention, ever since Aunt Peggy’s words the night before. Even if she spent the rest of her whole life looking. She looked away. “I’m not ready for the servants to clean up in here.” That was all the answer Maria needed.

With a soft squeeze to her shoulder, she murmured, “I thought not. Well, I hope you find something that hints at where he might be. ‘West’ is mighty vague, even for an intrepid young woman like yourself. I wouldn’t hold my breath, though.” She headed across the room, reaching for the chords for the drapes. “And while you do that, I might as well go see to the preparations for our journey. It’s never too early to get the ball rolling.”

“Our?” Darcy muttered blankly, blinking owlishly against the light as Maria threw open the curtains. Dust floated in every direction, disturbed by the sudden motion. No one had been in this room in days, not since Darcy’s grandparents had died.

“Our,” Maria confirmed, her tone as hard as steel, and as immovable, too. “You didn’t think I was gonna let my little girl go traipsing off across the country without me, did you?”

In between one heartbeat and the next, Darcy flew across the room. One second, she was staring at her friend from behind the desk, finger still tracing the line of ink across one of Howard’s ledgers. And in the next, she was in Maria’s arms, clinging hard and blinking away tears. The other woman’s arms were light and gentle against her back, rubbing soothing circles against the fabric covering her back.

Once she was sure she wouldn’t embarrass herself by crying like a child, Darcy pulled away. Maria’s face was stern, but her eyes were understanding. “It’s been a rough week for you, little dove, I know. But you’ll get through this. You’ve still got me.”

Nodding her head quickly, Darcy stepped back. Smiling around a sniffle, she assured, “I know. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Maria.”

“You’d figure something out, Darce. You’re a resourceful one. But you don’t have to. And whenever you find someone you can rely on—”

“—you shouldn’t work alone,” Darcy finished. 

“Good girl.” With one last pat to her shoulder, Maria headed for the doorway. “Your grandfather never learned that lesson. I might suggest going through your grandmother’s things, instead. Of the two, she was the more likely to learn from her mistakes, don’t you think?” She tilted her head toward the smaller desk in the corner, the one that had belonged to Darcy’s grandmother.

She had a point. It had been her Grandpa’s greatest weakness, to always think he could do everything alone. He’d never hesitated to shove away the people who disappointed him, and he never looked back. With that in mind, Darcy unceremoniously dropped the leather-bound book she was holding to the desktop—she didn’t care about being sloppy, now that Grandpa wasn’t around to yell at her for it.

Grandma’s desk was much less cluttered, and she was able to pick through its contents easily. The smell of her perfume still lingered on the pages of the books, and Darcy held them up to her nose with a pained inhale. She closed her eyes against the memories and the grief; it had always been so much easier to love Grandma. Less hard edges, without the alcohol and self-imposed isolation that had worn away at Grandpa.

But her work was also devoid of any mention of Darcy’s Papa, which brought on grief of another kind. She’d been so hopeful—

“Mrs. Carter and Miss Carter are here to see you, Miss Darcy,” one of the maids said from the doorway, eyeing her with interest.

“Thank you, Anna.”

The girl—well, she was a little older than Darcy, so probably couldn’t be considered a girl at all—lingered in the doorway. “Do you want me to pack e’erything up in here, next?”

She sighed. “Yes, you might as well. Thank you.”

With a bob and a curtsy, the maid was gone. Deciding it was best not to keep Aunt Peggy waiting, Darcy turned toward the door. She trailed a reluctant hand over her grandmother’s desk in a final goodbye. Only to stop dead as one of her fingers tripped a little wooden switch. With a quiet click, a secret compartment opened on the desk.

Inside rested a small book, bound in dyed leather and wreathed in dust.

_For Darcy_ , the inside of the cover read. With excitement rising within her, she quickly flipped through the pages. Her heart sank as page after page was blank, but she persevered through to the end of the book. There, on the last page and written in Maria Stark’s distinct handwriting, was a message.

_If I die before I’m able to tell you this in person, I’m sorry. Look for a friend near Santa Fe. I love you_.

Tucking the book into one of her hidden pockets, she hastened for the door. With any luck, Aunt Peggy would have more information on her father’s whereabouts. _Santa Fe_. She had a direction, at least. With her pulse pounding in her ears and her heart lodged firmly in her throat, she practically flew down the stairs. She didn’t care what any of the servants thought, for once. All she cared about was finally being able to find her father. Twenty years after her birth, she might actually have a way to locate him.

Peggy and Maria were already murmuring to each together as she walked in, shoulder to shoulder as Sharon looked on. “You’ve been doing what?” Maria hissed, dropping her voice as the door opened. Seeing that it was Darcy who walked in, she turned her glare back on the other woman.

“I’ve been keeping track of Anthony over the years,” Peggy repeated. “As best I can, at any rate. His wild streak doesn’t seem to have abated at all, as far as I can tell.” She held a letter in her hands, which she brought up in front of her eyes. Peering at it, she said, “My most recent letter indicates that Anthony was holed up somewhere near—”

“Santa Fe?” Darcy cut in, eager to prove Grandma’s hint useful.

Peggy’s sharp gaze met hers. “Puente Antiguo, actually. A little desert town near Santa Fe. But that’s a hell of a guess, girl.”

Everyone’s eyes were on her. “Grandma hid a note for me to find.”

“Ahh.” Aunt Peggy’s eyes were fond. “I always knew Maria Stark had a backbone stronger than she let on. Too bad she didn’t use it while she was alive.” Darcy opened her mouth to defend her grandmother—how, she didn’t know, when she secretly agreed with Peggy’s assessment—but the older woman waved her off. “But no matter. It looks like your grandmother wanted to reunite you, as well.”

No one knew what to say to that. “So, what now?” Darcy asked into the quiet of the room. “If I leave, what’s to prevent Mr. Zola from getting his hand’s on my grandparents’ estate anyway?”

“I met with the solicitor this morning,” Peggy revealed, heading toward the settee.  The two younger women followed, but Maria headed to the hallway instead. Probably for tea and coffee.

“Mr. Fury?” Darcy liked the man, a lot. He was one of the few people—including Aunt Peggy—who had always been willing to speak his mind around the Starks, social consequences be damned. He had a strange sort of naked ambition that Darcy admired, if only because it meant she wasn’t always having to read between the lines to assess his motives. She also liked his courage; as a black businessman—in banking, no less—he had more than his fair share of enemies in the city. But he never gave up. And he was ruthless, which was why Grandpa Howard had hired him in the first place.

“The very one. He sent a note for me while I was out yesterday, asking for a meeting. He implied it was urgent.” She paused, and Darcy barely restrained the urge to roll her eyes. Aunt Peggy was wonderful and her stories were so interesting. But she also had a serious flair for the dramatic.

After a few seconds, it was clear that she wasn’t going to immediately continue. Huffing a silent breath, Darcy prompted, “And?”

“Let’s not be uncivilized, dear. We can wait for tea.” Peggy’s eyes were shark-like, sharp and piercing, and her grin was borderline wicked. She’d never been this openly devious when Darcy’s grandparents were alive. At least, not that Darcy could remember. She liked this new version of her aunt.

That didn’t mean she wanted to have to wait, though. Turning her head slightly so that Peggy wouldn’t see, she caught Sharon’s gaze and rolled her eyes. Sharon bit her lip and stifled a laugh behind her hand. A bony hand reached out and pinched Darcy’s ribs, hard enough to make her jump. She squeaked and turned an accusing gaze on the older woman, rubbing the soreness away with a palm. “Aunt Peggy!” she whined. But her aunt wasn’t fazed; she just stared at Darcy with a challenging look.

The door opened, breaking their playful standoff. Maria looked between them with pursed lips, then rolled her eyes and moved to set up the tea and coffee on the low-standing table that sat between the three women. “Why don’t you pinch Maria when she rolls her eyes?” Darcy muttered under her breath.

“Because Maria would skin anyone alive if they touched her without permission.” That drew a reluctant grin from the housekeeper, who ducked her head to hide her pride at the statement. Darcy looked at her with new eyes, then turned back to Peggy with a hopeful look. Her aunt chuckled. “That’s her story to tell, darling. But I wouldn’t try to pinch her, if I were you.”

Maria cleared her throat and handed Peggy her cup of tea. “Anyway. What did I miss?”

“Nothing at all,” Sharon muttered grumpily. “Aunt Peggy refused to get to any of the good stuff while you were gone.” The woman clucked her tongue at her niece’s cheek, but Darcy drowned it out with her laughter. She and Sharon exchanged matching looks of mischief, and a little piece of Darcy’s anxiety drifted away. Sharon had always been the quieter of the two, but it was good to remember that she had a friend through all of this devastation. Someone her own age who could understand how she was feeling.

“It’s true, Aunt Peggy,” Darcy said, still chuckling. “You were playing up the suspense while we waited.”

Her aunt waved that away and turned her gaze on Maria. “Nevermind all that. Maria, I was just telling the girls that Fury sent me a note yesterday, telling me he needed to speak with me on an urgent matter.”

Maria’s cup clattered a little against the plate as she set it down. The hot coffee inside sloshed and turned, but didn’t spill over the edge. Her gaze was curious as it met Peggy’s, and all of a sudden Darcy remembered the fond way Maria spoke about Mr. Fury, and the rumors that had spread below-stairs about the two of them. She’d never given them any second thought; what Maria did and with whom didn’t seem to be her business, quite frankly. But now Darcy wondered whether she’d be taking her away from a man she loved, if she pulled Maria west.

The sound of Peggy’s voice had her putting that thought aside, to ponder over later. “The urgent matter Mr. Fury alluded to was the matter of your grandparents’ estate, Darcy. Zola got one thing right, at least—you are to inherit everything.” The information, for all that it was shared so casually, had the effect of shattering china on the room. Everyone froze. It was ridiculous, really, considering that they’d all expected such an outcome. Well, there’d always been the chance that her Grandpa would’ve changed his mind, especially after the fight they’d had.

She hadn’t said anything to anyone about it, but she’d been worried that in the end they would decide that she wasn’t worthy, their bastard granddaughter. The one whose name carried a smear of shame that wouldn’t ever go away, the product of a son they preferred to pretend they’d never had. Darcy hadn’t ever felt like she truly belonged in the Stark family home—she’d had little fantasies of her unknown mother coming to fight for her, or her Papa stealing her away in the middle of the night so that they could go on adventures together. She’d loved Grandpa and Grandma, at the end of it all, but they hadn’t ever truly felt like _home_.

Maria’s gentle touch on her knee had Darcy looking up. “They loved you,” she murmured, too quietly for the other two women to hear. It was soft and gentle, a reminder without recriminations. Maria had been a major part of Darcy’s life, practically since birth, and knew exactly how tumultuous the relationship between Darcy and her grandparents had been. Not too bad, clearly, or at least not bad enough that they’d cut her out of the will.

With an aching heart, Darcy found herself wishing that some had been set aside for her long-banished father. A sign of forgiveness, or even atonement, for pushing him away. She said nothing of her thoughts, though. Patting Maria’s hand, she offered a nod and a subdued smile and turned back to Peggy. “And once Zola finds out—”

“He won’t stop,” Peggy confirmed. “He’ll get much worse, if anything. His methods have been fairly subdued until now. But if he thinks he can force you into marriage, well…there’s nothing he won’t do.” The words she wasn’t saying hung in the air over them, and Darcy and Sharon both shuddered. They’d heard the horror stories.

“But the good news, if you wish to call it that, is that a marriage, forced or otherwise, is his only option. Your grandparents named me your guardian until your twenty-fifth birthday or marriage, whichever comes sooner.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

Peggy took one long drink from and set the empty cup on the plate with a decisive click. “Might as well get all the details out of the way, hadn’t we? Then we’ll know what we’re working with, here. Better call for more tea, Maria. This is going to take a while.”

The explanation was a long one, if only because Darcy was new to discussions of inheritance and legal verbiage. In the end, the Carters stayed all day and well into evening. There was a tense moment, right when they were discussing the arrangements that Peggy would have to make with Mr. Fury before Darcy set out west, when a maid scratched at the door. “Mr. Arnim Zola is at the door, Miss. He asked if you’re available to receive him.”

Everyone looked at her in silence, and it took Darcy a second to realize that she was the mistress of the house, now, even if Aunt Peggy was over for a visit. “Please tell him I’m indisposed, Beth.” The girl curtsied and went on her way, but the little ball of terror she’d felt at hearing Zola’s name didn’t fade.

When she turned back, there was a sympathetic glint in Aunt Peggy’s eyes. It was immediately swept away in the wake of pure determination. “Whatever you do, Darcy-girl, don’t let him in. Pretend to be ill or overcome by grief or whatever you have to do, but do not allow him entrance. Cease to go out altogether, if you must—actually, it would be best not to tell anyone of your plans, other than those already in the room. Zola has eyes and ears everywhere. I cannot stress how conniving that man can be, and how dangerous he is to your future.”

She already knew—that one conversation from the night before was enough to last Darcy a lifetime. Instead of saying so, she simply nodded her head in agreement. “I understand, Aunt Peggy.”

“Good. Then I will work with Nicholas on the legal aspect of things, Sharon will keep her ear to the ground on her social outings, to see if Zola has been stupid and let something slip. And you and Maria will sort out the house, Darcy. Decide what you want to keep, what you want to take with you, and what you would like me to sell for you. And I will take care of the rest.”

That was the plan.

And it was a good one, for Darcy’s physical and mental health. It was a huge task, to decide to pick up and move west. There was the house and the servants and all of her grandparents’ things—and her father’s, which she’d found hidden away in one of the attics—and even if Peggy could technically handle all of it, Darcy didn’t feel right leaving it all behind without a backwards glance. And she was grateful, too, for the time to breathe, to acclimate herself to the idea of moving west. Perhaps for the rest of her life, when all she’d ever known was New York. It was a daunting thought.

So, all in all, Darcy was in favor of the plan. And for a couple of weeks it went very well, and nothing seemed like it could possibly go wrong: there was not a peep from Zola and Peggy worked with Mr. Fury to make sure everything was in order, while Darcy and Maria took charge of packing up the house, divvying it into what would be kept for Darcy and what would be sold at auction. She should’ve known that it couldn’t be that simple, but she was caught up in the relative ease of the entire process.

Until, that is, someone decided to set the house on fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments feed the muse, if you've got the time and inclination. ❤️❤️❤️


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the fire--and the plot--thickens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was originally posted on tumblr on August 31 (queenie's birthday!!), so you may have already read it. this is the last chapter that will be posted on tumblr first. the rest are coming directly to ao3. :)

There was no warning, nothing. Later, Darcy and Maria would look back and see the little hints of escalation—the increasingly-frequent attempts by Mr. Zola to coerce the young woman into speaking with him, the rapidly-growing pile of letters that sat unopened and ignored on the corner of her grandfather’s desk, the fact that Darcy had to stop leaving the house because the odious man would show up with uncanny timing as soon as she returned—but at the time they just considered them to be annoying inconveniences. Creepy, perhaps, but certainly not dangerous.

After it was all said and done, Maria would remember catching a maid in the process of gesturing to Mr. Zola’s men, the garden door unlocked and cracked open. She dismissed the girl on the spot, ignoring her sobbing pleas; any woman who was willing to sell out another of her gender for a bit of coin was not someone Maria was willing to trust around Darcy. Not even with the chamber pots. And thus, the door was locked and barred against Zola and his henchman for another night.

She intended to pen a letter to Mrs. Carter and inform her that Zola’s schemes were getting more and more underhanded and unhinged. But then a servant accidentally set off one of Howard’s numerous mysterious inventions while packing up the study and shrieked loud enough to rouse the whole house, maybe the whole street. So, Maria hastily shut the door, barred it, and hurried up the stairs. The plans to move out west were hard on Darcy, even if the young woman claimed to be excited; Maria could see the wear of it at her eyes, her mouth, the lines of her face. And between her fears and the grief of losing her grandparents, she had enough on her plate. Which meant that Maria was even more determined to keep the process moving as seamlessly as possible, to save her precious girl what trouble she could.

If the servant hadn’t knocked into Howard’s mechanical figurine—a harmless one, thankfully, albeit extremely noisy—and Maria hadn’t had to race to shut the damn thing off, she might have noticed the rockaway parked on the other side of the street. It was hidden in the shadows, and the figure inside observed as the men came so close to gaining entrance to the house, only to be blocked at the last minute. As Zola watched the scene, the vehicle practically shook with the fury of his rage. He was denied access to the Stark bastard once again.

If Maria had looked out the window, she might have seen that something was off. In the way the henchmen slunk back to the vehicle, like dogs expecting to get hit, or the way the driver nervously shrank away from the passenger’s seat. If she had, she might’ve been able to prevent the fire. But she was busy dealing with Howard Stark’s mischief from beyond the grave, and she had no time to stare at shadows or darkness or any such nonsense.

And three nights later, someone set fire to their home.

Darcy woke up to a strange scraping sound, oddly like the creak of the garden gate as it pulled over the cobblestone path—the damn thing sagged at one end and always made the most awful, high-pitched noise—and it was entirely out of place in the middle of the night. Her room overlooked the garden, true, but never had she heard it this late; it was too heavy to open on accident, even with gusty wind. She laid perfectly still in her bed, holding her breath so as not to make a single sound in case it happened again, listening for the creak of the gate or the scuff of a boot against the stone path. But nothing happened. The garden outside her window was silent, though she could hear the creak of the wooden floor outside her bedroom as a maid moved through the hallway. Still, she waited.

Finally, deciding it had been a figment of her imagination, she rolled over and tried to drift back to sleep. It was most likely just a fragment of a nightmare that had followed her into consciousness, she decided; her worries over Zola and his schemes had taken over her brain, haunting her even in sleep. And now he was ruining her rest, too, keeping her awake with fear of what he might do. The thought of him having such power over her made Darcy angry, and she punched her pillow a few times before determinedly closing her eyes. Taking deep breaths, she started to silently count backward from one hundred—a technique that Maria had taught her as a child, when her brain was too active to shut itself off. She reached the number seventy-two before her mind went fuzzy, coaxed into that soft space between wakefulness and the peaceful lure of deep sleep.

The explosive sound of glass shattering against the foundation of the house startled her upright. With her heart pounding in her ears—she knew that she hadn’t imagined that, it wasn’t possible—she threw back the covers and sprinted to the window. The wood of the floor was harsh against her bare feet, but she paid it no mind. Throwing back the curtains, tossing aside modesty and caution in favor of haste, Darcy was blinded by the unexpected bright light that was overtaking the garden. The brilliant yellow and orange hues seared her eyes, and it took her a second to realize exactly what she was seeing.

Turning away from the window, she screamed bloody murder. “Maria! Someone’s set fire to the garden.” There was a series of scrambling and frantic fumbling noises all throughout the house, and she knew that her warning had been heard by at least someone. But they might not wake fast enough to stop the flames from spreading. And with that thought in mind, she raced to the wardrobe and grabbed the first dressing gown she laid her hands on, shoved her feet into some slippers, and headed for the door. Maria was already running down the hall toward her bedroom, disheveled and sleepy and altogether panicked.

“Are you alright?” she asked frantically, examining Darcy from head to toe, as if somehow she might’ve gotten hurt from inside the house. If the situation had been any less dire, Darcy might have laughed at the overprotective concern. Right now, there was no time for humor.

“I’m fine,” she assured, and together they raced toward the stairs. “But we have to hurry. Someone threw a glass lamp at the house, and the fire is already spreading.”

With a dark scowl, Maria asked, “Did you get a look at the person who threw it?”

Darcy felt so stupid. Stopping in the middle of the stairs, she confessed, “No, I didn’t. Maria, I’m so sorry. I was panicking—”

Maria seized her arm and continued on down the stairs, forcing her to snap out of it and keep up. “I was just asking, Darce. I don’t blame you. At all, alright? The blame for this lies solely with the pigeon-livered, shoddy excuses for men who did this.” Her face was bright red with fury, none of it directed at Darcy, and it was clear that they both knew who was responsible.

A cluster of servants waited for them at the bottom of the stairs, near the kitchens and the hallway that led out to the garden door. “Should I call the firefighters, Ms. Hill?” one of them asked. It sounded like Anna.

Someone thought to light a lamp, and she saw that it was Anna who had spoken. Her face was pale and scared, and her frail shoulders trembled with fear. Somewhat hysterically, Darcy wondered what they were all doing loitering at the base of the stairs when the house could be burning down around their ears. Maria clearly had the same thought. “Don’t be daft, Anna. The house would burn down anyway, and we’d still have to pay them off. No. You,” she ordered, pointing directly at Tom, “fetch water. Keep it coming, as much as you can. Anna, Philip, get buckets. I want everyone else outside, working to douse that flame. This house is not burning down. Not tonight.” When everyone stood in place, staring at her, she clapped her hands and growled, “Go!”

They scattered. At the last second, Maria commanded, “Beth, wait.”

“Yes, ma’am?” She looked like a rabbit who’d just been scented by a hound, as if Maria was a predator who wouldn’t hesitate to gobble her up. Not that Darcy blamed her; Maria was ferocious even on her calm days. At the moment, she strongly resembled a raging goddess of fury from one of the old pagan religions.

“Hurry over to Peggy Carter’s home, girl, and tell her that someone tried to set fire to the Stark mansion. I don’t care what you have to do to get a message to her. Go, and do it quickly. And quietly, if you please.”

The frightened girl offered a jerky nod and was gone. Without wasting any more time, Maria headed for the garden. Darcy followed, hot on her heels.. The smoke lingered in the air, and the smell of burnt grass and wood reached their noses. But it wasn’t so thick as to choke, and she wondered if they’d somehow gotten lucky. Maria stalked to the door, then suddenly seemed to remember that Darcy was with her. “Darcy, stay in the house.”

Her cheeks were hot, and not from the flames in the garden. “This is my house too, Maria! There’s no way I’m staying inside like a good little girl while my home burns down around my ears. I have two arms, two legs, and I can help put the damn fire out like anyone else.”

Maria opened her mouth to protest, or to reason with her, maybe, but Darcy was already marching out the door.

The scene was not as chaotic as she’d thought it would be, which was strange. And a bit disorienting, honestly. The fire was confined to one side of the garden—the side directly underneath her window, which gave Darcy the shivers—and the servants seemed to have it mostly under control. They’d formed a sort of assembly line: Anna passed the full buckets of water to Tom, who traded her for an empty one and passed the water on to Philip, who focused on dousing the flames. Darcy moved to join the process, gravitating toward Philip’s end of things, drawn like a moth to the flame. Though smaller than expected, the flames of the fire burned bright and harsh. The reds and yellows battled fiercely against the dark shadows of late evening, so intensely that the colors burned the backs of her eyelids even as she turned away to protect her eyes from the blaze.

A hand caught at her elbow, keeping her from getting too close, and Maria was suddenly between her and the fire. The smoke stung her eyes. The housekeeper’s silhouette blurred and shimmered in front of her, and Darcy had to blink away a stream of tears. She didn’t know how Philip could stand to be so close; her eyes already burned with a fierce pain. With the hand at her elbow, Maria turned her body away, so that they faced the garden gate. For a second, Darcy thought she saw something move in the dark, in the shadow of the outer wall. But then she blinked again, forcing away the film of moisture obscuring her vision, and nothing was there.

“Are you alright?” Maria asked, leaning in to her personal space. The other woman practically had to shout for Darcy to hear her—she’d never known that fires were so _loud_. She hadn’t known a lot of things, clearly. The sound of glass shattering against brick echoed through her mind, and she fought not to cry real tears. Someone had tried to seriously hurt them, to destroy her family’s home. It wasn’t abstract anymore.

When she didn’t answer immediately, Maria grabbed her shoulder and shook her a little. “Darcy!” she shouted.

That no-nonsense tone brought her back to herself, as it always did. Darcy had learned very young that when Maria used her stern tone of voice it was best not to ignore her. “I’m okay,” she mumbled, raising her eyes to meet the other woman’s. Maria’s expression softened slightly when she saw the irritated redness of Darcy’s eyes, the tears that streamed down her cheeks.

She steered her away, back toward the door to the house. “We are of more use over here, sweet. Philip and Tom have a rhythm going, and we’d only disrupt it. They’re stronger and faster than we are, and your hands are not used to the coarse handles of the buckets. No need to injure yourself when it wouldn’t do any good anyway. Come this way,” she said, drawing Darcy over to where Anna was hurrying back and forth to fill up the buckets. “You fill them with water, Darcy, when I hand the empty buckets to you. Anna will pass them along.”

It was good to feel useful, and the steady rhythm—take the empty bucket from Maria, fill it up as quickly as possible with water, then pass the now-heavy weight back to the housekeeper, who passed it along to Anna, and so forth—took Darcy’s mind off the actual circumstances from the fire. She lost count of how many buckets she filled with water, or how long they worked. Her arms grew sore and tired, unused to such physical labor. And just as Maria had warned, her palms grew blistered and red, swelling so badly that she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep up the work. She stared down at them, defiant and angry and wondering how she was supposed to survive out West if she couldn’t even handle such a simple task.

Maria watched her with growing concern, eyes flicking back and forth between her swollen hands and her frustrated expression. But the housekeeper said nothing, and Darcy knew that her help was badly needed. She soldiered on, ignoring the pain with sheer determination, until finally one of the men let out an excited holler. From inside the house, Darcy couldn’t tell which one it was.

“Ms. Hill, we did it! It’s out!” The three women raced out the door to survey the damage for themselves. It was Tom who’d yelled, and he didn’t lie. There were scorch marks climbing halfway up the wall, practically Darcy’s height, but all the flames had been extinguished. The men were jubilant and practically vibrating with triumph, for all that their faces were tracked with tears and their hands and clothes were streaked with soot.

“Hush,” Maria hissed, though the line of her mouth was not nearly as harsh as usual. “We don’t wish to wake the neighbors, you hear?” That got the men’s attention, and they stared at her with curiosity.

“Go on inside and wash yourselves off,” she said. “You’ve done well this evening, putting out the fire before it could do much damage.”

Darcy cleared her throat, causing four pairs of eyes to swing her way. “Who knows what would’ve happened without you,” she said, trying not to choke on the ash in her throat. Her voice was quiet, but carried through the air with an authority she hadn’t even known she had. “You’ve earned a bonus, and then some. Get some rest, and we’ll settle on an appropriate reward in the morning.”

They looked at her incredulously—well, Maria’s expression was stoic, but she was always stoic—before Tom, Philip, and Anna’s faces broke out into wild grins. There was a chorus of “Thank you, Miss” and “Just doin’ our job, Miss,” as they stumbled over each other to get into the house. She knew that part of the reason for their haste was that they were worried she’d change her mind, and the thought made her angry. How many times had Grandpa Howard promised to reward them, only to forget or take it back later?

“Wait.” Maria’s voice was low but commanding, and all three turned back to look at her with trepidation. For a single, disbelieving moment Darcy thought that the other woman was going to overrule her wishes, but instead she said, “Don’t tell anyone about this, not yet. I want a chance to speak to the police first, before anyone catches any gossip. Am I understood?” Her gaze was heavy and expectant as it rested on every one of them, and each nodded without hesitation. “Good. Go on. You’re relieved of anymore duties until tomorrow.”

She waited for the door to shut behind them before reaching out to cup Darcy’s elbow. “We need to get a good look at the lamp that started the fire, and collect the pieces if we can. Who knows what could _disappear_ overnight.” Her meaning was unmistakable, and in tandem they turned toward the scorched earth of the garden. The moon was bright and there was a faint light still coming from Darcy’s window—in her haste, she’d forgotten to blow it out—and they had just enough light to search for the broken glass without drawing any more attention to themselves.

Moving slowly and methodically over the grass, they hunted for the glass pieces. After a silent minute of searching, Darcy finally found one, but Maria stopped her before she could try to pick it up. “No, it’s still too hot. Just nudge it over there, and keep looking.”

Eventually, they’d managed to compile most of the broken glass. It was a lamp, as Darcy had thought, but there was something about the sight of it that caused Maria to frown. With pursed lips, she murmured, “There’s something not right about this. Why here? Why would they start a fire that wouldn’t—” Her eyes grow round and troubled, but whatever she was about to say next was cut off by the creak of the garden gate.

Maria’s face changed immediately, sharpening into a terrifyingly dark glower. As Darcy turned to look behind her at whoever had come through the gate, the other woman reached into the pocket of her dress and drew out a sharp, wicked-looking knife. “Darcy, run!”

She meant to, she really did. But her body was tired from the effort of putting out the fire and her feet seemed to get tangled up in her skirts immediately. Not that it would have made much difference. The men were already there, herding her back toward the wall of her house. She tried to run anyway, and Maria stepped forward to protect them both with her weapon—a distant part of her wondered whether the housekeeper actually kept a weapon on her at all times, even during the day when she was working around the house, and at another moment she might’ve found that image completely hilarious—but she was too far away.

One of the men snagged Darcy by her braid as she tried to sprint past him, tugging on it painfully. His other hand came up around her waist, gripping and groping and ripping a hole into her dressing gown like it was made of flimsy paper. She opened her mouth to scream, but he let go of her hair to shove his hand over her mouth. Maria was fighting off the other brute, keeping him at bay with her knife, but she too was hindered by a dress and stumbling in the dark.

The man holding Darcy started to drag her backward, toward the gate and out of Maria’s reach. With a muffled scream of terror, Darcy bit down on her captor’s hand and struggled against him, stomping on his foot and trying to elbow him in the ribs. He let out a howl of pain but didn’t stop; her slippers were soft and useless against his boots, and he was much bigger than her. She continued to thrash, pulling away from him as hard as she could. Her eyes never left Maria’s form, even as it got harder to see in the dark. If only she could get to Maria.

When they reached the gate, she struggled even harder. If he got her away from the house, she knew, it would all be over. But she couldn’t find purchase, couldn’t find a place to dig her fingernails into soft flesh—and then suddenly the weight behind her was gone. His grubby hand was gone from her waist, and his hand fell away from her mouth. She was almost too terrified to move, until she heard his body hit the cobblestone path behind her. She was free.

There was no time to waste; Maria was still fighting a man twice her size with nothing but a knife. But as she stepped forward, a hand ghosted over her shoulder. “I’ve got this,” a soft voice murmured, and a lithe shadow slid past her in the dark. The person was too small to be either of the henchmen, and had seemed too friendly, anyway.

Within seconds, the man accosting Maria was on the ground, either unconscious or dead. It was unladylike, but Darcy couldn’t bring herself to care all that much about his possible demise. He’d been trying to hurt the person she cared most about in the entire world, after all. And, of course, he’d been party to an attempt to physically force her into an unwanted marriage. There was no doubt in her mind that Zola was behind all of this.

Darcy stepped close, eyeing the stranger warily as Maria and the unknown person stared each other down. “Thank you for your help,” Maria offered cautiously, stepping sideways so that she stood between Darcy and the newcomer. Her knife was still drawn.

The stranger folded their hood back, revealing the striking face of an amazingly beautiful woman. “It’s not a problem,” she replied with a faintly Eastern European accent. The flickering light from Darcy’s window illuminated the striking color of her hair. It reminded Darcy of the flames they’d put out at this very spot, not even an hour before. With a wickedly amused grin, she revealed, “Peggy said you were having a problem. She sent me to help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments make the world go 'round. <3


	4. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which we get a taste of what's going on out west.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to queenie for putting up with me. and to everyone who's been reading this thing so far! 
> 
> we're taking a little detour, but we'll be back with darcy next chapter.

His first thought was that Pepper was going to kill him.

After months of turning his life around—tipping the little street urchins extra for their assistance in delivering mechanical parts, drinking less and waking up sober more, ceasing his frequent trips to the local saloon and its upstairs rooms—he’d convinced the straitlaced shop owner to give him a real shot. Not that she was squeamish; he knew for a fact that the reputable Miss Virginia Potts kept a loaded shotgun under the counter. Just in case one of her patrons had particularly light fingers, or thought he might like to see what was under her skirts. Tony himself had been on the other end of that firearm, staring up past the barrel into her coldly furious eyes, though not for either of those reasons. It was a relief, to know that Pepper was well-used to taking care of herself.

But after months of him working to win her over, woo her with words and actions rather than sweets or flowers (he’d never tried so hard, not in New York and not in New Mexico, either), for him not to show up to take her on a picnic? She’d never give him the time of day, ever again. Not that her inevitable rejection should be the focus of his attention right now. Not when he wasn’t even sure if he’d make it back to Puente Antiguo alive. As if reading his thoughts, one of his captors delivered a sharp, precise kick to Tony’s abdomen.

“Stupid Northern piece o’ shit.” The man spit angrily, his face wreathed in shadow. They only came close after nightfall, under the cover of the night sky and away from the raging flame of the campfire. In the dark of the cave, they were free with their insults and their beatings. When Tony couldn’t see them, couldn’t identify their raspy voices. Cowards, all of them.

He grinned, ignoring the blood that spilled out of one corner of his mouth. The man flinched, as they always did when faced with his devil-may-care attitude. Folk out west were real superstitious, he’d found, and often painted Tony as a man who’d traded with the devil. He had, though not in the way they thought. But when the man backed away slightly, fingering at the worn, wooden cross at his neck, Tony figured that the reputation served him just fine at the moment. 

“If you’re gonna insult me, asshole, you should at least try to be creative. It’s boring, listening to the same thing over and over.”

That earned him another kick, busting the already-broken rib a little further. Tony coughed and choked on more blood—it was worth it, was always worth it. A shifting shadow farther back in the cave reminded him that it wasn’t just his life at stake, though, and with a grimace he turned away from his captor. The man looked like he might continue the beating, moving close enough to illuminate the ugly scowl that marred the lower half of his face, but he drew up short as soon as he realized that Tony was muttering under his breath. With one last fearful, angry look, the man spit at Tony’s feet and hurried away—walking like a man who was trying not to run, praying to his Lord in an effort to stave off Tony’s evil. Somehow, Tony was able to stave off the mocking laughter; fearful of the devil or no, if they heard it he’d be beaten to death within a minute or two.

A sigh reverberated from the walls of the cave, braver now that the other man was gone.

“You shouldn’t antagonize them so,” Yinsen chastised, melting out of the shoulder to cast a worried glance at Tony’s ribs. He pulled a satchel out from under his shirt, a collection of herbs and remedies he’d learned how to use in his time with the Navajo, and cast a wary glance toward the still-flickering campfire. They fell silent for a long moment, listening to the murmurs and heavy clink of bottles as they crashed into each other. Assured that no one else was coming—not for a while, not while they were drinking too heavily to sit up straight much less get up and walk—Tony lolled his head toward the other man. For the first time, he was conscious of the way the blood trickled from his mouth, of the tongue he’d bitten at the first sharp pain in his side. With his hands tied, he couldn’t reach up to wipe it away. He turned his head to wipe it against his shirt instead, trying to ignore the sharp smell of his sweat and the dirt that had mixed in. With everything else going on, it was silly to worry over his hygiene. Except where it impacted his various injuries, of course.

Before his thoughts could ramble on in that tangent--making a mental map of ways to change medicinal practices to reflect better hygiene, now that he had personal experience with injuries, was interesting but not useful at the moment--Yinsen brought him back with a thunk of his satchel against the ground. The older man was used to his strange journeys even after a couple of days, and had figured out surefire methods for bringing Tony back to reality in a hurry—namely, loud sounds and a pinch or two, when necessary. Wrapping his arm around his ribs at the remembered sting, Tony blinked up at the other man. The pain made it worse, and he was still caught in a bit of daze, somewhere between the safety of his thoughts and the hurt of the real world. 

“’s part of a plan,” he slurred a little. With more effort, he clarified, “I’m trying to make them angry. Angry men let things slip.” And he still didn’t know why he’d been taken. Or, as callous as it sounded, why they were keeping him alive.

Yinsen tsk’ed, but kept the rest of his censorious words behind his teeth. His hands were gentle as he slipped the dirty shirt over Tony’s ribs, as quietly as possible, pausing when the younger man flinched. He eyed the newer injuries with consternation, muttering under his breath in Farsi. Tony listened to the new curse words with interest, tucking them away to remember later. New ways to frighten the skittish mercenaries, if nothing else. 

Catching sight of the look on Tony’s face, Yinsen snorted lightly. 

“You’re the reason my language is going to be associated with the devil, you know.” He sounded resigned, but not particularly upset about that fact.

With a wincing grin, Tony said, “Well.” He paused to suck a deep breath, staring at the midnight black of the cave ceiling as Yinsen firmly pressed the herbal remedy against his stomach. “If it gets passed around amongst these idiots, I think I’ve done you a favor.”

Humming—not quite agreeing, but not disagreeing, either—Yinsen bypassed that statement altogether to murmur, “If it’s all the same to you, I think you should lay your attempts at goading to rest. At least for a couple of days or so, to give your ribs a rest. They’re not made of iron, you know. You can only handle so many beatings.”

Tony opened his mouth to joke, perhaps about iron or the state of his body, maybe. He wasn’t sure, except that his go-to method for coping had always been gallows humor, from the time his father had cut him off to his attempts to adjust to life out west. The thought of New York—the pang as he thought of his unknown child, the precious little girl, his _Darcy_ —was too painful, etched across his heart like a brand. It still burned after all these years, the letters he’d written to her seared into his memory. Two decades later, and he remembered every single word he’d ever put on paper, pouring his heart out to a little girl he’d never gotten the chance to meet. His sweet daughter, who he’d never even gotten to hold.

He was almost grateful for the distraction when the men at the campfire yelped and lurched to their feet. A moment later he was kicking himself, because as one the group turned and gestured toward the cave. The captives sank back into the shadows, as if they could disappear into the cave walls, but the sound of multiple pairs of feet still vibrated up the path.

Halfway through the first day of captivity Tony had already memorized the sounds of the men’s boots on the path—it was the way his mind worked, and he couldn’t ever seem to turn it off—and so he immediately identified the heavy tread of a newcomer. A stranger. His eyes flicked to Yinsen, darting between the path and the back of the cave. The other man understood his meaning immediately, and gathered his herbs as quickly and quietly as he could. Yinsen barely had time to strap the satchel back into place and melt into the shadows toward the back of the cave by the time the men appeared over the hill.

The newcomer was in front, clearly in power. Tony met his gaze defiantly, aware of the dried blood that still lingered on his chin but not bothering to reach up and wipe it away. Let the other man think him foolish and hot-headed; it was always better to be underestimated. And with that in mind, Tony purposely looked away, to seem defiant but afraid. Not that it was much of an act, really. But it made him feel better to play the game. The stranger eyed him in silence for several long, tense minutes. He clearly came to some kind of conclusion, nodding and murmuring under his breath.

“So. You are the infamous Anthony Stark. The inventor, no?” The man’s smile was taut, pretending at politeness but pulled tightly over his teeth like he’d rather be baring them instead. The rest of the group shifted behind him as he spoke, but no one dared to say a word. Which mean that this man was likely their leader. Finally, they were getting somewhere.

“It’s Tony,” he corrected with a wolfish grin. Some of the men flinched at the sight of his chapped, bloody lips stretching across his teeth, and he felt a vicious stab of satisfaction. The leader’s eyes shifted, as if he’d seen something unexpected. Something he liked, according to the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. Lifting the torch higher, the man stepped closer. He stopped short, head tilted in appraisal, at Tony’s next words. 

“And I’m more of a tinkerer, really.”

The man hummed. “That’s not what I’ve heard. I heard that the Starks are a family of inventors, and that you take after your father in your intellect. Surpassing it, even.” Where had he heard—

That train of thought was cut off as one of the men darted past him into the cave. He lunged sideways, ignoring the biting pain in his side at the movement, but it was too late. The son of a bitch had Yinsen by the throat, a knife’s edge gleaming with menace against his dark skin.

“Now that we’ve sidestepped the pleasantries,” the leader started, his tone light and easy as if they were taking lunch in an upper-class parlor back East, “I’d like to make a deal with you, Anthony Stark. I trust that you’ll keep that acid tongue of yours to yourself.” He flexed a hand, just a little, and the man holding Yinsen tightened his grip. The older man groaned in pain, and Tony gave in.

“What do you want, you son of a bitch?”

“I want to see how you can help the Ten Rings, inventor.” Assured of his victory, the man let loose a snarling grin. It was all snapping teeth, gleaming and wide in the firelight. 

“In exchange for your life and your friend’s, of course. And you may call me Raza.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments make the world go 'round.
> 
> you can also find me on [tumblr](http://bloomsoftly.tumblr.com). ❤️


	5. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you follow me on tumblr, you probably know that i'm on hiatus. i've written hundreds of thousands of words this year (not an exaggeration), and i had to slow down for my mental health.
> 
> i'm coaxing it back, but i hope you'll be patient with me in the meantime. ❤️
> 
> this is unbeta'd. all mistakes are my own.

Maria’s shoulders relaxed minutely at the mention of Peggy’s name, but she didn't put away the knife. It was hard to see in the faint light, but Darcy thought she saw a flicker of respect slide across the stranger’s face. Good. They'd all be better off if she realized that Maria wasn't a person to cross. In the next second, though, it was gone, replaced with a wry smirk.   
  
“Do you think we might take this indoors?”  
  
The three women were silent as they trudged inside. Maria stayed firmly positioned between Darcy and the newcomer, knife still drawn but hidden against the folds of her skirt. The servants, who had gathered in the entryway to the house and were clucking in distress, fled from a practiced glare from Maria.   
  
When they reached the drawing room, the stranger reached around Maria with lightning-quick reflexes. Darcy flinched, but the woman was only offering her hand to shake.   
  
“Miss Lewis, I'm Natasha Romanov. Peggy contacted me about the situation with Arnim.” The man’s name rolled off her tongue with obvious distaste, and Darcy wondered how she knew him.   
  
Setting that aside for the moment, she matched the other woman’s firm grip as best she could manage and pumped her hand twice before letting go. Maria eyed her with distrust.   
  
“Why?”  
  
Ms. Romanov turned toward her, cocking an eyebrow at the blatant challenge. The way her body moved reminded Darcy of one of those big cats at the zoo, the ones that were biding their time before they pounced on their prey. For the first time, she wished she carried a hidden knife like Maria. They knew nothing about this woman, and Darcy was suddenly aware of the fact that she had no way to protect either of them, should it come to that. Her ribs ached with the reminder of her vulnerability.   
  
“It's what I do.” The woman stopped a foot away from Maria and offered a sharp grin. “Natasha Romanov of Black Widow Rescue, ma'am. At your service.” She bowed low, sweeping her arm out to the side in a mocking gesture, but never took her eyes off the housekeeper’s.   
  
She kept her back to Darcy, and the young woman knew that she didn't even see her as a threat. As quietly as she could, she shifted over to a side table and grasped one of the heavy candlesticks. It made her feel better to grip the heavy weight, in any case. Maria caught sight of her and shook her head minutely, eyes wide with alarm. The other woman saw the motion and spun in place. Her smile stretched into a genuinely delighted grin.   
  
“Kitten, there's no need for that. I'm on your side. Though good thinking with the candlestick. Nice and heavy, but still narrow enough for you to grip with one hand. There's hope for you yet.”  
  
“I'm no kitten,” Darcy growled, dissatisfied with the sound as it escaped her throat. She felt as weak as a newborn feline, her grip on the candlestick weak with fatigue. Maria shook her head again, and with a silent sigh Darcy let go of it and stepped away from the table. “And you still haven't said what you're doing here.”  
  
“Darcy—” Maria’s voice was firm, a clear ‘please let me handle this’ ringing in her tone.   
  
Ms. Romanov only smiled wider. “My apologies, Miss Lewis. My partner and I run a bit of an…under-the-table agency, you see. We help women escape from dangerous, life-threatening situations. We assist these women—often young like yourself—who have been placed in untenable circumstances by their fathers, grandfathers, uncles, brothers, and we get them to safety. Peggy Carter reached out to me on your behalf.”  
  
Maria cocked her head and blinked at the woman, examining her as if hunting for a memory. After a moment, something settled. Her eyes darted to Darcy for a brief second before traveling back to the other woman.   
  
“I've seen you before.”  
  
Ms. Romanov inclined her head and allowed, “Perhaps, Mrs. Hill. My work takes me all over the city.”   
  
That was suspiciously vague, in Darcy’s mind, but Maria let it drop with a slight nod. A haughty look swept over the housekeeper’s face at the mistaken address.   
  
“It's _Miss_ Hill, Ms. Romanov. I have never been married.” How she could sound as proper and nonchalant as if they were meeting over tea, Darcy would never know.   
  
“My mistake, Miss Hill,” the redhead purred. Her grin was wolfish, and Maria blushed under her gaze. “And it's Natasha, please.”  
  
The housekeeper cleared her throat, uncomfortable under the other woman's regard. Darcy shifted her weight, awkward and out of place in the strange half-flirty, half-weighty tones that were being tossed around.   
  
“Natasha. If you know the situation, and clearly you saw the fire, then you must realize that we need to leave tonight. It is too dangerous for Darcy to stay in New York.” The other woman was already shaking her head before Maria could even finish, and Darcy cursed herself for putting her makeshift weapon aside. She was suddenly entertaining terrible scenarios in which the woman refused to let them leave.   
  
“I understand your worries. But we are not yet ready to leave town, Miss Hill. You and your charge are not my only clients—there is a scientist who will be joining us for part of the journey. She’s not quite ready to depart. And besides, it is my understanding that Nicholas needs a little more time to get all of the financial matters in order. At least another day or so.”  
  
It was odd, having all aspects of her life torn apart to be examined and picked apart by strangers, especially the topics—like her family’s financials, her inheritance—that her grandparents had never seen fit to share with Darcy. She felt a little like a wooden top that had been left to spin on a tabletop, careening wildly out of control closer and closer to the edge of complete collapse.   
  
“I need to go collect my partner,” Ms. Romanov was saying, “and then I'll come back so we can discuss your options. I'd like to leave a guard or two with you in the meantime…”   
  
The rest of the woman’s words faded out as a distant ringing in Darcy’s ears deafened her to everything else. Black spots danced at the edges of her vision, and she fought not to sway as she was overcome with dizziness. Soot burned at the corners of her eyes, and she rubbed at them absently before remembering the horrible state they were in. Tears tracked down her cheeks in searing agony, and her vision blurred. The cold numbness from before fell away, and Darcy shook as the events of the evening crashed through her brain.  
  
Soft hands were suddenly on her shoulders, guiding her with surety to the doorway. Maria spoke over her head, but Darcy was so focused on stifling her distress that she didn't pay attention to what the other woman said. Then a wet washcloth was sweeping over her eyes, cleaning them of soot and easing the burn.   
  
It was Maria who'd taken care of her all her life, and it was Maria who took care of her now. After standing between Darcy and danger with nothing more than a wicked-looking knife, now she wiped away her tears and despair with all the care she'd given her as a small child. It was too much, and Darcy fell against the other woman with a sob.   
  
“Hush now, sweet girl. You did so well, and the danger is over. Let's get you clean. You'll feel much better afterward, I promise.”  
  
She didn't remember much of the actual bath, except that she followed Maria's instructions with jerky compliance, as if she was a marionette on a string. It felt like no time at all before she was clean and dressed again in a heavy robe, on her way back down the stairs to meet with Peggy.    
  
The older woman looked as undone as Darcy had ever seen her. Her dark hair was pleated back in a simple braid, liberally sprinkled with silver and gray, and her eyes were wide and frantic with worry.   
  
“Darcy!” Peggy's hands were cool and dry against her heated skin, an instant balm to the fear and anger that had overcome the young woman. “My dear, are you alright?”  
  
“I'm okay, Aunt Peggy. Really.”  
  
Neither the young woman's words nor the evidence of her own eyes seemed to be sufficient, as Peggy ran a clinical hand over her shoulders and down to her hands. She squeezed them gently before reaching up to tilt Darcy’s chin into the light.   
  
“What happened to your eyes?”  
  
“Smoke.” Darcy neglected to mention that at least some of the tears were not from the pain. A girl going west couldn't admit that she'd cried because she was scared of a little scuffle.   
  
As if she could read Darcy’s thoughts, Peggy offered a wry smile and leaned close.   
  
“There is no shame in being afraid, darling. Not even if it results in a few tears.” Her words were quietly murmured against Darcy's ear, meant for no one to hear but her. She patted the young woman's cheek as she pulled away, leaving a hint of her signature perfume to linger in the air. The familiar scent of it soothed Darcy.   
  
“What happened?” Peggy pulled away to ask, tone brusque and cold, a stark contrast to the warmth that still lingered on Darcy’s cheek. To Darcy’s surprise, Peggy wasn't addressing her or Maria, but Ms. Romanov.   
  
A quick glance at Maria confirmed that the other woman was just as surprised. She hid it quicker, though, with a blink that shuttered her entire expression. Not that the other women in the room were paying any attention.   
  
“We were discreet, Mrs. Carter, as you asked. Only one person watching the house, from the main street at the front of the house.” Her tone was a strange mix of respect and defiance, and her chin had a stubborn tilt that wouldn't fade no matter how hard Peggy stared at her.   
  
Paradoxically, it made Darcy like the redhead more. The show of contrariness made her seem less like an automaton and more like a human being, which settled some of Darcy's nerves about trusting herself with a stranger.  
  
Maria didn’t have the same thought.  
  
“So you were already assigned to our protection, then? Am I understanding that correctly?”   
  
At Ms. Romanov’s reluctant nod, Maria continued hotly, “Then why on earth should I entrust Darcy’s safety with you? Someone set fire to the house— _directly below her room_ —and then almost made off with her altogether, on your watch. And yet you want me to trust you to keep her safe in the same house that was burning not two hours ago, when we know that Zola will clearly stop at nothing to get her?”   
  
Her voice was the shrillest Darcy had ever heard, loud and practically vibrating with a blend of fear and raging fury. Twin spots of color bloomed in her cheeks, and she was reminiscent of a Valkyrie in her righteous fury, or a pagan goddess of vengeance. It was enthralling, and Darcy got the sense that she was only now starting to learn who her housekeeper truly was.  
  
 Even Peggy didn’t seem to know how to soothe the irate woman, which at any other time would have been hilarious to Darcy—her Aunt Peggy was not often lost for words. Maria wasn’t getting any calmer, though; if anything, she was more furious because no one seemed ready to answer. When she opened her mouth again, presumably to demand more answers, Peggy held out a cautioning hand.  
  
“Let’s sit down for this. I heard the two of you put out the fire yourselves. You must be tired. No, Maria, I’m not brushing you off. But Darcy looks like she’s about to fall over and you’re not much better.” The mention of her charge worked like a charm, as Peggy had no doubt intended. It was annoying, to be used so blatantly as a means for Maria’s compliance, but there wasn’t much Darcy could do about it. Not right now.  
  
Peggy waited for them all to seat themselves before she spoke again. Natasha claimed the first chair—one that gave her a direct line of sight to the door. Darcy was steered into the seat next to her.  
  
“Now, I want to make it clear that Natasha spoke the truth. I did tell her to keep a casual eye on things as we made our preparations, and today’s incident wasn’t foreseen by anyone. Not even you, Maria.” Her tone was sharp at the last statement, and Maria’s jaw closed with a snap. The animosity that had been building in the room was giving Darcy a headache, and she was grateful when the brunt of it seemed to bleed away.  
  
“Alright,” Maria said in a much more conciliatory way. “Please explain how it is safer for Darcy to stay in the house tonight.” _After it was nearly burned down_ was left unsaid.  
  
“There are no trains running this late,” Ms. Romanov replied with infinitely more patience than she had before—whether that was due to an increase in respect or the presence of Peggy, Darcy couldn’t say—“which means that we’d have to put the two of you in a hotel. Here, in your house, I can better control who goes in and out. There are less unknowns. And you are absolutely right, Miss Hill, it’s clear that Zola will stop at nothing to reach Miss Lewis. Which is why you must stay here.”  
  
There was a scratch at the door, admitting the maid who left a pitcher of tea and coffee on the table. Even late-night planning sessions required some sort of decorum, apparently. It was ridiculous, and for the first time Darcy was looking forward to the less polite society of the West. She had company in Ms. Romanov, who looked the offering over with good-natured scorn. They shared a conspiratorial smile; shy and unsure, Darcy looked away immediately.  
  
“I’ve already sent for my colleague, Sif, and our primary bodyguards. Everyone we have available has been pulled to watch over you tonight, and I will stay here as well. I assure you—neither Zola nor the devil himself will get through.”  
  
The rest of the conversation focused on the minutiae of the plans for the evening, and Darcy’s eyes began to flutter shut against her will. She didn’t remember much of the words that were said, except to rouse herself when she heard that she’d be switching bedrooms. It would be better to change up her location in the house, Natasha explained. Outsiders would have no way of knowing that something changed, much less where she’d be.  
   
The sound of the front door shutting with a firm thud and heavy footsteps echoing through the hall jolted Darcy into full wakefulness. She was still blinking away the haze of sleep when the door opened.   
  
A dark-haired woman with striking features was the first to walk through. As she walked in, she cast an instinctive glance around the room—checking for threats, perhaps. Her stride was different from Ms. Romanov’s, too: somewhere between the redhead’s prowl and the steady confidence of a boxer. Between the two of them, Darcy couldn't tell who drew the eye more. She had a feeling they liked it that way.   
  
Before anyone could catch her staring, a large mountain of a man with a cascade of blonde hair stomped in, a scowl heavy on his brow. His expression was startling and—due to his size—quite frankly alarming. No one else seemed bothered, though, even if Maria was keeping an eye on the newcomers.   
  
“What is this catastrophe, Natasha, that requires that I leave Lady Jane unprotected?”   
  
The boom of his voice made Darcy flinch. He caught the movement and turned toward her; she tried not to shrink under his regard, reminding herself that she'd never had a problem with strange men before her grandparents’ death. His stare was heavy with irritated curiosity for a moment before melting into something that was vaguely sheepish.   
  
“There was a fire, Thor, as Sif no doubt told you.” Ms. Romanov’s expression was calm even in the face of his outburst. A subtle motion and a light cough from Peggy reminded her to add, “My apologies. Miss Hill, Miss Lewis, this is Thor Odinson. He works with Sif and I to protect our charges.”  
  
The man was still staring at her, and made no move to follow up Ms. Romanov’s introduction with any social courtesies. Darcy tried not to fidget under the sharp gaze. Finally, he turned to his colleagues.   
  
“Why did you not tell me she was so young?” he demanded. His accent was strong and lilting when he wasn't on the cusp of yelling—it would’ve been quite pleasant to listen to, actually, if his words hadn't stoked her ire. “I will rain heavy vengeance on Arnim Zola for targeting such a young woman.”  
  
“Pardon me,” Darcy huffed, rising from her seat to meet his eyes more fully. He still had at least a foot of height on her, but she felt better about it as she drew herself to her full height. “But I am no child. I’ve reached my majority, I'll have you know.” She stuck her nose up in the air and sniffed, trying to ignore the fact that the entire room’s attention was on her.   
  
“Peace, little sister.” The blonde giant laughed and held out his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I meant no offense.” The laughter was echoed by the mirth in his eyes, though it didn't seem particularly mocking. Darcy blinked, thrown by the way his facial features shifted to accommodate his change in mood.   
  
“Miss Lewis, Miss Hill,” Ms. Romanov said, effectively drawing their attention back to her. “This is Sif. If you’re ready, we can discuss the plan for your travels now. Otherwise, we can wait until morning. Once you retire, we'll check the perimeter of the house and keep watch overnight.”  
  
With one look at Darcy’s exhausted face, Maria made her decision.   
  
“Let's discuss it tomorrow. It's been a very long evening already.”  
  
Ms. Romanov inclined her head gracefully, and they said their farewells. Before Darcy could slip away, Peggy stopped her with a gentle hand on her sleeve.   
  
“Before I forget, darling, I need to return something to you.” It was the letter, as pristine as ever and not a single edge ripped or torn. The sight of it almost brought tears to her eyes, like the return of a long-lost friend. Peggy saw her relief and smiled.   
  
“I never should have taken it from you, Darcy. My apologies. You are smart to keep it safe. And hidden.”  
  
Her tongue was thick and heavy in her mouth and there was a solid lump in her chest, so Darcy didn't try to speak. Instead, she leaned in to hug the other woman. As she pulled away, she was only able to offer a soft murmur, trapping her emotions behind her teeth before they could escape into the air between them.  
  
“Thank you, Aunt Peggy.”  
  
The older woman patted her on the cheek with a soft hand then shooed her off to bed. Darcy went gratefully.   
  
Before she fell asleep, she took out the letter to smooth it across her pillow. She basked in the words she'd long ago memorized by heart.   
  
_My darling, sweet girl_ , it began.   
  
With a gasping breath, she clenched her eyes shut. The faded ink of her father’s handwriting was sharp and clear against the backs of her eyelids. When she opened her eyes, the words swam in front of her, blurry from the scalding tears that tracked their way down her cheeks.   
  
It didn’t matter. She knew the rest of it by heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments make the world go 'round.


	6. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy meets Jane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm still alive and kicking! and writing, when my brain lets me.

Surprisingly, Darcy slept well that night. She'd expected to toss and turn, tormented with memories of the fire or the attempted kidnapping. Instead, she slept like a baby. Maybe her body was overly exhausted, or perhaps she just trusted the Black Widow Rescue team that much. If she had to guess, she'd probably go with exhaustion. 

Either way, she woke up well after dawn, a departure from the wake up routine she'd been following for weeks as they prepared to move west. She felt like a silly child as she crept down the stairs, waiting to be scolded for sleeping late. Or, worse, that they'd let her sleep on purpose, so that she didn't get in the way of their planning. Like she was still a little girl, more of a nuisance than a help. 

The feeling was decidedly unpleasant.

So, with thunder on her brow and acid in her stomach, she crept down the stairs. She was intent on listening in on any clandestine meetings being conducted in her absence, even if she had to do so with her ear to the door. 

To her surprise, there was no such meeting. Maria was the sole occupant of the dining room, with ink-stained fingers and papers strewn out across an entire end. She looked up as Darcy wobbled in the doorway, propelled by a righteous indignation that was apparently unwarranted. 

Quirking an eyebrow at the strange look on her charge’s face, Maria lowered the piece of paper she was holding to the table and focused all of her attention on Darcy. 

“Good morning, Darcy.” 

When Darcy only grunted in reply, a bemused look flitted across Maria’s face. “Is something amiss?”

Darcy was saved from having to respond by the arrival of breakfast. Suddenly famished—a belated response from the adrenaline of the previous day, perhaps—she avoided answering by stuffing her face with breakfast. Maria’s gaze followed her every movement, but still the young woman refused to make eye contact.

An awkward, tense silence filled the room, only punctuated by the sound of Darcy’s quiet chewing. With a final searching glance, Maria decided to leave it alone.

“Would you like to get out of the house today?”

Darcy’s eyes shot up from her plate to glare at her suspiciously. “What’s the catch?”

“What?”

Swallowing hastily, she tried again. “I thought it was too dangerous for me to leave. What’s changed?”

Maria’s eyes sparkled with mischief, the most lighthearted Darcy had seen her since Mr. Zola had set his schemes in action weeks earlier. “Well, now that you have a big burly Viking at your disposal, things seem quite different.”

“I don’t think Mr. Odinson would enjoy being at my beck and call, Maria.” She could still remember Thor’s harsh words from the previous evening, and she had no desire to see that thunderous expression directed her way again.

Maria’s smile widened, looking very much like the cat that caught the canary, and Darcy was left with the feeling that she’d sprung the other woman’s trap.

“Oh, not to worry, Darcy. I have a feeling Mr. Odinson will be all too happy to accompany you on this social call.”

 

* * *

 

“Lady Jane?”

Silence greeted them. Darcy peered around Thor’s broad shoulder into the dimly-lit office— it was more of a closet, really—but nothing moved. Other than the swirling dust, the air was still.

Life and death scenarios of what could’ve happened to the scientist raced through Darcy’s brain, but Thor looked unperturbed. Just as she was about to grab one arm and urge him to mount some kind of rescue or investigation or whatever his agency did, his head cocked slightly to one side, listening.

After a moment to coax her breathing into a slightly steadier pattern, Darcy followed suit. There was the sound of scratching against paper, as though someone was writing. Now that she knew where to look, Darcy could barely spot the young woman in the corner, hunched over a desk.

“Lady Jane,” Thor tried again. “You have a visitor.”

“Hmm, what?” The petite woman didn't look up as she mumbled the question, too busy scratching something into a leather-bound notebook. 

“I have brought your traveling companion to meet you.” Thor sported a patient, indulgent smile as he repeated himself. It was sort of adorable. Well, at least she knew why he'd been so disgruntled the night before. It clearly wasn't anything against Darcy. 

Something got through, the second time. Dr. Foster looked up from her papers, blinking owlishly at the sudden change in light. Her lips tugged at the corner, reflexively matching Thor’s grin, and Darcy stifled a snicker at what an adorably sappy couple they'd make. 

“Oh, hello!” The other woman's hands fluttered up to her hair, as if she was afraid of not looking presentable. It was a fair assumption: her fingers were covered in ink stains, her dress was wrinkled and slightly dirty, and her hair looked as though a bird had landed and made a nest. There was something altogether charming about her, nonetheless.

For the first time since her grandparents’ funeral, Darcy found herself thinking about something other than her father or the looming threat of Arnim Zola. 

She wanted to make this strange woman her friend. 

Her first opportunity came when Dr. Foster’s harried motions sent an entire stack of loose sheafs of paper scattering to the floor. Darcy raced over to help, while her escort stayed behind to watch the door. 

“I'm sorry to have startled you,” she said, treating the papers with care while taking caution to avoid getting a paper cut. From what Darcy could make out in the murky lighting, the handwriting was nearly illegible. How the woman would be able to read it later was beyond her.

“No, it's not you. I'm just…jumpy…lately.” Until now, Darcy had forgotten that this woman was under the protection of Ms. Romanov’s agency as well, and she felt a momentary stab of guilt at ignoring that bit of information. Watching the way that the woman’s eyes skittered away as she mentioned it, she decided that it was better not to press the issue. At least not until they knew each other better. “I'm Jane.”

“Darcy. It's a pleasure to meet you, Jane. Where do you want these?”

“Oh, right!” Setting her own stack aside, she held out a hand for Darcy's and began to comb through them. “Rats! They're all out of order. It's going to take me hours to put them all back together.”

Taking a peek, Darcy checked to see if—nope. No good. Tentatively, she suggested, “Perhaps you might try adding page numbers in one of the corners as you write your notes? Not the ones that don't go together, of course, but within the groups?”

Jane stared down at the pages, then looked up at her. “You are amazing. Yes, that's—that's perfect. Why didn't I think of that myself? It doesn't help right now, of course, but next time? Oh, you're wonderful.” She surprised Darcy with a quick squeeze of the hand. “If you have any other organizational advice, I'm all ears. I've got the brains for science. Not so much the record-keeping.”

“Hmm.” Darcy tapped her chin and thought back to all the organizational tools she'd watched her grandfather use in his study. “What about…umm adding some kind of code to your documents? Like…” She looked down at a random piece of paper and said, “Using the words  _ stars _ or  _ charts _ to reference your constellations and maps, or  _ theory _ for the new theories you're creating?”

The scientist didn't say anything for a long moment, until her entire face was suddenly overtaken by a brilliant smile. 

“Oh, I'm definitely keeping you,” she declared, as if that was how friendships worked. To be fair, Darcy had been thinking almost the same thing ever since she'd walked into the little office, so she couldn't blame her. Before she could respond, Jane added, “Would you like to see some of my work?”

Darcy nodded. It wasn't that she particularly cared for astrology or astronomy or whatever it was that the scientist studied; she’d honestly never given much thought to the stars. But she did suspect that the woman had gotten far too little encouragement and support for her efforts, and it was the least she could do to offer up some of her own. Plus, she really wanted the woman to like her. And if she learned more about the universe in the process? Well, it wasn't like it was going to hurt her at all. 

The afternoon passed quietly, silent except for their conversation and the rustle of papers as Darcy helped Jane find an organizational system that worked. It would help on the road, too, though she didn't know how much of her work the scientist was planning on bringing with her. 

Thor, for his part, left them to converse in peace. He lounged near the doorway, looking for all intents and purposes as though he was on the verge of falling asleep. His eyes were alert, though, and Darcy had no doubt that he'd be ready to defend them at a moment’s notice. 

Sometime later—hours later, judging by the way the sunlight crept across the floor—he gently interrupted them.

“Miss Lewis, I promised to return you by supper.”

She blinked, then stared at the clock. Sure enough, it was that time. Jane looked up from the paperwork, clearly as befuddled as Darcy, then shrugged. 

“We got sucked into the work, I guess. It happens.” She raked a thin hand through her hair, and Darcy had a sudden epiphany. 

“What are your supper plans?”

Jane frowned at the sudden change of conversation but answered, “I'm not sure.  There was something around here for me to eat. Was it over there with the star charts? No. Maybe with the rock samples? Hmm.”

“Or, you could come eat with us.” Jane's sharp gaze snapped to hers, so she quickly added, “It would make the agency’s job much simpler if you joined us. Right, Thor?”

“Right.” The man was already grinning, and winked at her in recognition and appreciation of her fast thinking. 

“Alright, I can see you're gearing up for a major to-do about it and we don't need that. Yes, I will join you for dinner. Thank you for the invitation.” Jane punctuated her statement with an eye roll and a mocking curtsy.    


“Great!” Darcy crowed, clapping her hands together and ignoring her new friend’s sarcasm. “Thor, would you mind asking a servant to send a quick message along to the house, so they know to expect an extra guest?”

“Aye, I'll do that. But I want you to lock the door behind me.”

“You'll be gone for two seconds,” she protested, not enjoying the feeling of being coddled at all. 

His stare was flat and heavy. “Either you do so, or I'm not going.”

“Alright, alright.” She followed him to the door, waiting until he'd stepped out to close it and turn the heavy lock. It made a satisfying click, and she could hear his thudding footsteps as he walked away; he'd waited to make sure she'd actually locked it before leaving. She sighed and thudded her head against the door lightly before turning back around. 

“Anyway,” she said as she moved back to Jane, who was grinning at her, “I think your theory on—”

She froze. There was a footstep outside the door, and it was much too soon for it to be Thor. Jane stared at her in confusion and opened her mouth to say something. A floorboard creaked, and she stopped as well. They stared at each other. 

Then the doorknob rattled. 

As silently as she could, Darcy crept back to where Jane was standing, frozen, like a deer that had spotted a predator. With a finger against her lips, she caught the other woman’s eye in a bid to be silent. Jane nodded, cheeks pale and eyes wide in her face. 

Darcy reached out a hand to her and together they sank to the floor on the other side of the desk, hidden from view. Their skirts whispered as they moved, but she didn't think the sound was loud enough to carry. 

Still, the timing was too suspicious to be coincidental; someone had known they were here, and had waited for Thor to leave before approaching. 

“You know, the two of you have been causing a lot of trouble for some very important people,” a male voice called through the door. “But if you come open the door now, I won't hurt you.”

They flinched in surprise, but neither made a sound. The doorknob rattled again, more harshly this time. 

“I'm telling you. If you open up this door right now, things will go a lot better for you,” the unknown thug sing-songed, his tone dripping with menace. “You've caused a lot of trouble for Zola, little Stark bastard. And you won't like what he does to people who cause him trouble.”

She could imagine, even if she didn't want to. The smoke of the fire was back in her throat, stinging her eyes. Darcy pressed a hand to her mouth, forcing herself to swallow her fear, and squeezed her eyes shut. Biting her tongue so hard it flooded her mouth with the coppery taste of blood, she almost jumped out of her skin when Jane took her hand. 

“And you, Dr. Foster,” the man raged, spitting the title like an epithet. The doorknob rattled harder, followed by the slam of a body against the wood, and Darcy wished she'd thought to jam a piece of furniture in front of it. “The whole city knows that you fucked and seduced your way to your degree. It ain't natural, a woman with so much education. And there are a lot of people ready and willing to show you your proper place. Wouldn't mind a taste of it, myself. All small and docile, exactly as—”

A loud curse echoed through the door, closely followed by something hitting the wall. There was the sound of fists repeatedly hitting flesh—Darcy and Jane flinched in tandem with every impact—and the sound of a man whimpering. A hopeful part of Darcy thought it must be Thor, come back just in time. 

What a mistake it would be, though, to open the door expecting to find a protector and instead serve them both up on a silver platter. Instead, she hunkered behind the desk, gripping Jane's hand tightly in an attempt to convince her to do the same. Not that the other woman seemed inclined to move. 

Eventually, the noises outside the door fell to silence. A long, quiet moan filtered through, and then there was the gentle rap of knuckles against wood. 

“Dr. Foster? Miss Lewis? Are you alright in there?”

“Yes.” Darcy's mouth wouldn't work, so it was Jane who answered. 

“Good. Stay put. I'm going to deal with this ruffian and I'll be right back. Keep the door locked.”

True to his word, Thor was back only a couple of minutes later. He eyed them carefully as Darcy opened the door, cataloguing for injuries even though he could clearly tell that the man hadn't gotten through. 

“You are both safe, yes? Uninjured?” At their nods, he grinned. His gaze was alight with a strange fervor; with a start, Darcy realized it was because he'd enjoyed the fight. 

“How about we head back to Stark Manor, before the two of you can get into any more trouble?”

Jane scoffed at that, sweeping out of the room with her chin held high. She looked like royalty, rather than a scientist who'd just been cowering behind a desk in an ink-stained dress. 

Darcy moved to follow, but couldn't let it go without expressing her gratitude. Her heart was still fluttering in her throat, beating a frantic song of terror. 

“Thanks, big guy.”

Thor’s grin showed all his teeth, every inch the predator who was enjoying hunting his prey. She was fervently glad he was on her side. 

“My pleasure, Miss Lewis.”

“You can call me Darcy, I think. Now that you've beat a man to a pulp on my behalf.”

“As you please, Lady Darcy.”

“Oh, no, you don't need to—you know what? Nevermind.”

His eyes twinkled as they hurried to catch up to Jane, and she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd just had the wool pulled over her eyes. He clearly enjoyed having people underestimate him; she'd have to watch out for that in the future. 

Right now, though, she just wanted to get back home. At the thought, Darcy groaned.

“What's the matter?”

Darcy’s eyes met Jane’s, trepidation filling every muscle. 

“I'm going to have to tell Maria what happened.” She stared out the window and contemplated running away altogether. 

“Who?” Jane asked, confused. Her words were drowned out by the sound of Thor’s boisterous chuckle. 

“It was nice knowing you, Lady Darcy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments make the world go 'round.  
> [be my friend!](bloomsoftly.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments make the world go 'round. <3


End file.
